


Twenty-Nine

by cherryblossomphil



Category: Phandom/The Fantastic Foursome (YouTube RPF)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-30
Updated: 2016-01-30
Packaged: 2018-05-17 06:17:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,253
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5857345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cherryblossomphil/pseuds/cherryblossomphil
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"We’ll be Friends Forever, won’t we, Pooh?’ asked Piglet. ‘Even longer’, Pooh answered.”- Winnie the Pooh; Dan takes some time to reflect on Phil’’s birthday. (sequel to “Twenty-Four”)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Twenty-Nine

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: angel bean turns 29 today, so here’s a fic to celebrate! this was actually very, very difficult to write, but i’m proud of how this turned out. i hope you enjoy and as always, please send me feedback! i’d love to know what you think!

 One is the number of pillows you sleep with every night. Left arm tucked beneath your head, right arm slung across my hip. Our legs tangle together, our breathing patterns synch; each slow exhale reminds me that there’s no place I’d rather be than curled up against you, tucked away from the world. You steal all the covers and snore louder than you’ll ever admit, but it’s worth it to feel your fingers warm around my hip, your heartbeat steady against my back. And when you wake up complaining of a sore neck and I remind you of the many pillows you have access to, you’ll laugh and pull me closer, saying that I’m the only pillow you need.  I hope you find me comfortable– I’ve been your pillow for six years and I don’t plan on giving up my position any time soon.

Two is the number of coffees you drink every morning.  Two cups of Nescafé, with three sugars and a splash of hazelnut creamer in each. I’ve never been a morning person; the sun is too bright and the house is too cold and waking up before noon should be considered illegal. But you hum while waiting for the kettle to boil and dance around in your socks and press warm bowls of porridge into my hands with a sleepy smile when I finally stumble into the kitchen, cutting off my tirade against the sun with a hazelnut-y kiss.  Seeing your glasses fog up from the coffee steam makes getting out of bed more bearable. Every morning is a good morning when I spend it with you.

Three is the number of subscribers you have (in millions, of course.) I remember the first time I saw you meet a fan. We were in Manchester, still stealing furtive glances and sharing shy smiles, wanting to keep _us_ – whatever “us” _was_ – a secret for just a little longer. She ran up to us and my heart stopped, unsure of how to react. But she turned to you and asked if you were _the_ Phil Lester, _the_ AmazingPhil. I’ll never forget the look on her face; pure excitement, complete and total happiness. She’d started to cry and, through tears, explained: she’d been lost, teetering between depression and numbness. And your videos had given her a spark of hope, something to look forward to and draw comfort from in times of sadness. You’d stood in shock, as if you didn’t believe her, but I could – I could, because I’d _been_ her. I’d been in that dark place, in search of something, _anything_ , to pull me out. And you had been that something, with your eternal optimism and infectious laughter and never-ending supply of flannel shirts. It was through your videos that I found the passion to pursue what I really wanted in life, and words can’t express how much thankful I am to have clicked on your channel all those years ago. I snapped a photo of the two of you, trying not to laugh at how hard you were blushing, but on the inside I was bursting with pride. You inspire happiness. You create joy. And that’s what makes you so special. Never stop being that spark, Phil Lester. Who knows? You might even change the world. You’ve already changed mine.

Four is how many shades of blue your eyes _really_ are. You always scoff when I say that; they’re just eyes, you say. Nothing special. If only you knew how wrong you are. In the morning, clouded with sleep and struggling to stay open, they’re the blue of the early spring sky, of just-bloomed hydrangeas and raspberry cotton candy. When you’re mad, they’re blue like glaciers –cold as raging waters and dark as thunderstorms. They’re the blue of late summer when you’re focused; of polished stained glass and fine Chinese porcelain. And when you’re happy – _truly_ happy, laughing so hard that your tongue pokes out and your nose scrunches up because your smile is so big – your eyes are blue like the breeze off the ocean, like the salt of the sea. They’re the blue of midday naps in the shade, the blue of wind rustling through the trees. They’re the blue of ice cream on the pier and sunshine on your skin and nothing but time on your hands and it’s heartbreaking how devastatingly beautiful they are. I once said that one could go swimming in your eyes but I was wrong; one would drown in their depth, terrified by the power they possess, yet tempted to dive right in. They say you can get lost in your eyes – if that’s true, then I never want to be found.

Five is the number of weeks that pass before we have to dye your hair again. It’s amazing; your hair’s gone through years of chemical _and_ straight-ironing damage, yet it’s still manages to be softer than mine. I’d be more offended if it wasn’t my own fault.  And it always looks good – ruffled in the morning, straightened during a video, shaved sides or long fringe or cut too short or overgrown. It’s ridiculous how attractive you are. I’m such a lucky guy (even if you stain my shirts black every once and a while.)

Six is the number of syllables in your name. Phil-ip Mich-ael Les-ter. “Philip” is the adult, the one I mention at family reunions and invite to high tea with my grandparents. “Mr. Lester” is my business partner, the one who makes the phone calls and signs the contracts while I pretend that I’m a grown-up who knows what he’s doing with his life. But “Phil” is the dorky guy who made videos in his bedroom, the guy I tweeted endlessly in an attempt to become his friend. He’s the nerd who has an unhealthy obsession with Joss Whedon, the flat mate who binge eats when he thinks no one is looking. “Phil” is the best friend I always wanted and the boyfriend I never thought I deserved. There are nicknames, of course – “Phiw” when I’m tired, “Philly” when I’m being a little shit – but “Phil” is a constant. I’ve yelled it in fear, groaned it in annoyance, whispered it in ecstasy, and spoken it with love.  And at night, as it rolls off my tongue like a well-rehearsed prayer, I mumble it against your cheek as a reminder that you’re there, _always_ there, right beside me. I hope that never changes.

Seven is the number of seconds it took me to fall in love with you. The original seven-second challenge -Manchester Wheel, October of 2009. We got to the top and the view took my breath away; I remember wind ruffling my hair, sunshine in my eyes. But then slowly – ever so slowly – you slipped your hand into mine. I felt you squeeze once, then twice, lacing our fingers together and brushing your thumb against my knuckles. And that’s when I knew. I knew from the way my head fit perfectly on your shoulder. I knew from the way you leaned against my chest. I knew from that moment on how _easy_ it would be to love you, and how easy it would be to be loved by you. And so I fell – I fell and I never looked back and now, six years later, I’m still falling every time you take my hand. It’s a challenge I’m willing to take, again and again.  

Eight is the number of syllables that _will_ be in your name, once you decide to ask me. I know you bought it already – fifth drawer of your dresser, the small black box underneath all your pajamas. You know my answer. I’m ready when you are. (And for the record, I am perfectly fine with Howell-Lester. It has a nice ring to it, don’t you think?)

Nine is the number of houseplants we have. Three in our lounge, two in our kitchen, three in our bedroom, and one in our hallway. I never thought I’d be the kind of person who owned houseplants, but then again, I never thought I’d be the kind of person who referred to himself as part of a “we”, either. Of all the things we do that could make us feel like an old married couple, of course it’d be the bloody houseplants. I’ll be at Tesco’s, and I’ll automatically go to the garden section to buy plant food. I’ll hear you filling up the watering can, and I’ll remind you not to overwater the one on the windowsill again. Over dinner, I’ll make passing comments on how dry the leaves of our ferns are. I’ll even apologize to the plants _by name_ if I accidently jostle them while walking by. It feels a bit mad, but seeing your smile when I surprise you with another cactus is worth putting up with the silliness of it all. And one day, when we tire of London, I’ll buy us a house with a garden big enough for as many plants as your heart desires. That’s a promise I’ll keep – to you, and to Winston the Fern (because he’s be asking for more root space since day one, that twat.)

Ten is the number of years you’ve been on YouTube. You’re a legend, a founding father of the British community – the original vlogger that started it all. It’s been ten years of creativity and passion, of dedication and inspiration. Ten years of crazy anecdotes and original challenges, of uplifting messages and never-ending happiness. It’s what makes your channel unique; you show people that it’s okay to be who they are, that “normalness leads to sadness”, that thinking outside of the box can lead to new and wonderful things. Ten years ago, you picked up a camera and opened yourself up for the world to meet; today, you’re reaching out and changing lives, one cheeky grin at a time. You’ve inspired some of the biggest names in the community to start their own channels, and continue to inspire new creators every day. And I wouldn’t be who I am today, or _where_ I am today, without you. You joke that you’re a dinosaur, a relic of what the internet used to be, but you’re wrong. You’re the true embodiment of what makes a YouTuber special; original and passionate, a ray of sunshine that spreads joy with every upload. And as your first decade ends and your next one begins, I wish you nothing but more milestones and memories for the future. I can’t wait to see what the next ten years have in store for you – it’s bound to be something amazing.

Eleven is the number of jumpers you own.  They’re everywhere: stuffed inside your closet, draped across our couch, crumpled on the carpet, hung on the door. They’re a mirage of colors and patterns, an outward reflection of the vibrancy with which you live your life. You always laugh when I buy new clothes – how can black come in so many shades, you ask. But maybe that’s why we fit together so well, like two pieces of an aesthetically-pleasing puzzle with matching haircuts and an ideal height difference. You’re the Technicolor in my monochrome life; the yin to my yang, my perfect counterpart. You make my days a little brighter and my nights a little warmer, and existential crises are scary, but they’re less scary when I’m wearing your hoodie and you’re presses soft kisses against my temple. I love wearing your jumpers - cologne threaded through the fabric from overuse, sleeves slightly worn from years of sweater paws. They bring warmth and comfort, like pre-packaged Phil hugs during the few times we’re apart. And seeing that glint of possessiveness in your eyes when I walk by, that small smile when you see me clad in your boxers and hoodie, well… it definitely makes my face heat up, my heart skip a beat. It’s a wonderful feeling, belonging to you. Never let me go.

Twelve – 2012 – was the year I knew we were gonna make it. It’d been difficult; the fans were more invested now, more invasive, more personal. We’d been thrust into a new era of “Dan and Phil”, where every move we made was scrutinized, analyzed into oblivion. And I was scared – scared of how dependent I was on you, of how fast and obvious I had fallen. Scared that our friendship, our entire relationship, was turning into a brand, a business move to draw more subscribers and gain more views.  It wasn’t true, I _knew_ it wasn’t true. But the little voice in my head is a persuasive bitch, and suddenly your touch burned too hot on my skin, your gaze made me flinch and turn away. We slept in separate beds for the first time in years, craving each other’s touch, yet being too stubborn to cross the hallway. We fought constantly, screaming at each other from two in the morning to two in the afternoon, the same argument over and over again until we slinked away to lick at our wounds and wallow in misery. Yet no matter how many times I pushed you away, no matter how many times I told you to go, you stayed. You stayed and you held me in your arms, letting me scream into your chest and cry against your shoulder. You pulled me tighter as you called me a git, rubbing my back as I clung to your shirt. 2012 was the worst year of my life, but it was the year I learned that nothing could get between us. Fans come and go, ratings rise and fall. Our careers are forever uncertain, and the future is as unpredictable as ever. But no matter what life throws at us next, I know that with you by my side, I’ll come out on top. We’re unbreakable, you and I – invincible, untouchable. Constant as a sunrise, beautiful as a sunset. Together, we can take on the world.

Thirteen is the number of freckles on your body, small and numerous like the stars of the night sky. I’ve memorized every single one, tracing imaginary constellations across your body with my fingers, feeling your skin pebble underneath my touch. Your beauty never ceases to amaze me – every gentle curve and sharp angle, embedded into my memory since the first time I worshipped your body. I wish you could see yourself the way I see you; a stunning work of art, a statue carved from the finest marble. I love how pliant you get underneath my fingertips, how you shiver when I kiss down your spine. My hands slot perfectly between yours. My head rests cozily against your shoulder. My back fits snugly against your chest, and our lips press together as if created for each other alone. You blush every time I tell you you’re beautiful, shaking your head and rolling your eyes. But it takes my breath away, your cheeks tinting the color of pomegranates, and every time you smile I’m reminded of how privileged I am to call you mine. It’s an honor to love you. I’ll never, ever stop.

Fourteen is the number of steps it takes to get from my bedroom to yours. It’s a giant leap from the thousands of miles that use to separate us, back when our conversations were limited to grainy video camera conversations and 140 characters. I was so young; unsure of what the future held, but happy to have someone to go on the journey with. And I was so smitten, blushing fiercely with every tweet notification, heart swelling at the sound of a Skype call. I still pinch myself sometimes – there’s no way  that I’m living in London with the man I use to idolize, pursuing what was once the biggest of pipe dreams and being truly, _genuinely_ happy with my life. But then my door opens and you take those fourteen steps, sitting on my lap with a smile. And god dammit, if that doesn’t prove that miracles exist, then I don’t know what will. I’m so unbelievably lucky to have you in my life. Thank you for being a dream come true.

Fifteen is the number of labels we’ve tried to put on our relationship. At first, it was easy – “acquaintances”, nothing more, nothing less. Two guys who occasionally tweeted (with one guy being _slightly_ more excited about it than the other). Then we traded Skype names and we were “friends”, talking late into the night and laughing over the stupidest things. But then you started to smile at me a little differently over the camera, and my heart skipped a beat when you asked for my number, and suddenly we weren’t just friends anymore. We were…. Something. Something that made it okay to buy expensive train tickets in order to see you. Something that allowed you to hold my hand whenever you wanted to, that let you kiss my cheek just because you could. Something that sent butterflies through my stomach every time you glanced my way, and balls of fire every time someone else talked to you a _little_ too closely. Our public labels have evolved so much over the years – collaborators”, “flat mates”, “best friends”, “PHAN”. And in private, they were just as inconsistent; “boyfriends” to our select inner circle, “partners” to our less-than supportive family members. “friends with benefits” to the few who haven’t managed to learn the full story, “exes” for the just briefest of moments.  It’s all unnecessary. I don’t need to label what you are to me. Because you’re my everything, my one true companion in life, the one who’s always in my corner when I need him, just like I’m always in his. You’re my biggest fan, my role model, the last thing I see at night, and the first thing I see in the morning. And whatever other labels the next few years brings – “co-hosts” or “business partners”, “fiancés” or “husbands” – I know two things will never change. You’re my Phil. I’m your Dan. And that’s enough for me.

Sixteen is the table we sat at in the Sky Bar. It’s adorable, how much you wanted to impress me. The food was exquisite and the view was breathtaking, but being with you, _actually_ being with you, was what made the day magical. I’ll never forget it; sitting high above the clouds, listening to your laugh and watching the stars sparkle in your eyes. One day, we’ll go back. We’ll order the same dishes and drink the same wine, and I’ll pay because it’s my turn to treat you like a king. You’ve given me the world – someday, I’ll give you the universe.

Seventeen is how many minutes my first existential crisis with you took. It was November; snow covered Manchester in a thick sheet of white, and your flat was absolutely freezing. I was Not Okay. The world was too sad, my mind was too loud, and the pressure of the next few years of my life loomed over me like a guillotine about to come whizzing down. I was tired, I was overwhelmed; and so, I stopped. Mid-conversation about universities and housing plans, I lay on your bedroom floor and closed my eyes, wishing for a way to shut out the world, if only for a few minutes. It was the first time I’d ever done this in front of anyone; the dark secrets of my psyche were finally revealed. I heard you clear your throat and say my name gently. I shut my eyes tighter and prayed to every listening deity that you’d somehow understand. And then I felt the ground move, a heavy weight settling beside me. I opened my eyes to see bright blue irises staring back, a soft smile on your face and your hand curling around mine. We lay there in silence, counting our breaths and listening to the clock tick from your desk. We stayed there for seventeen minutes until I rolled over and curled up against you, kissing your jawline with a barely audible “thank you”. You squeezed my hand and waited until I was ready to face life once more. I don’t know if you remember that – it was years ago, and I’ve had many a crisis since then. But it was the nicest thing anyone has ever done for me, and it’s impossible to tell you how eternally grateful I am for what you did. You helped me when no one else knew how to. Thank you for always being there.

Eighteen is how old I was when you came into my life. I was lost, a mess of stress and anxiety, eager yet terrified to grow up. I had big dreams and big plans, but the world is a scary place and I wasn’t ready to face what life had to offer. And then you came along, with your contagious laugh and your eternal optimism, and I took a chance. That’s all it was, really; pure chance, a leap of faith that changed my life forever. I took a chance, and now life is nothing but an endless possibility, an adventure just waiting to be taken. That chance was the best decision I’ve ever made. The world isn’t so scary when I face it with you.

Nineteen is the day we met. The train was fifteen minutes late, and I rushed onto the platform, terrified that you had already left, or worse – that you never even came. But I saw a flash of cerulean, glimpsed a tuft of jet black fringe and all of a sudden you were _there_ , standing in front of me, unhindered by spotty internet connection or pixelated screen images. You swept me off my feet and pulled me into a hug, and it was like my entire life had been leading up to this moment, as if I was put on this earth to be with you. My hair was windswept and people were starting to stare but I couldn’t find a single fuck to give because you smelled like cinnamon and I could feel your lips against my neck as you repeated the same two words over and over again, like a mantra: _you’re real, you’re real, you’re real._ And _you_ were real, warm and solid and present, and as I hugged you tighter I decided right then and there that there was no greater feeling than being in your arms. I still stand by that statement, thousands of hugs later.

Twenty was how old I told my family you were, in order to convince them to let me buy the train tickets. A two year age gap is less shocking than four, especially when you’re trying to meet a “super cool internet friend who makes videos in his bedroom and posts them online”. (My grandparents still think you’re turning twenty-seven today. What they don’t know won’t hurt them.)

Twenty-one is the number of stairs there are up to our flat. Moving in was a nightmare; being dirt broke and scrawny really sucks when you can’t find a company cheap enough to help you move into your new place. I nearly broke all the kitchenware and you almost died of a heat stroke, but three flights of stairs are nothing when you think of the amazing break that landed us in London in the first place. A radio show was _massive_ , an unheard-of opportunity for a couple of weirdos from the internet. We moved without a set plan, with no guarantee that our show would be chosen, but you believed in us and I trusted you. I trusted you, and we moved without a second glance back. But on that first day in London, sitting on the floor of our empty flat with pizza and warm wine, I asked if you thought we’d make the cut.  You smiled and said you didn’t know. You didn’t know, but it was worth a shot and at any rate, it’d make for an amazing story. Look at us now:  award-winning radio presenters, with festivals and hosting jobs coming at us left and right. You were right. Being with you has been a fairytale of epic proportions. I’m so proud of the tale we’ve told.

Twenty-two is the average amount of footage that gets cut from Phil is Not on Fire every year. The published PINOFS are a treasure in themselves, perfect snapshots of our years together. But the deleted footage, the ones hidden from the public - _those_ are the true scrapbooks of our lives. Twenty-two minutes of stupid jokes that make no sense to anyone but us. Twenty-two minutes of accidental words of affection that would send the fandom into chaos if they ever heard it. Twenty-two minutes of comfortable silence and meaningless banter, of domestic conversations and sudden bouts of singing. They’re the clips I watch over and over again, laughing at our ridiculous hairstyles and our strange sense of humor. Those clips are 100% _us_ – not danisnotonfire, not AmazingPhil. Just two guys with cat whiskers on their face, trying not to scratch their nose and still in shock that this is what they get to do for a living. The fans always ask for more bonus footage, and maybe one day I’ll relent. But for now, these memories are ours, and ours alone. Here’s to making more memories, one whisker at a time.

Twenty-three is the new number of times we’ve had to edit out sex from our videos. We really, really, _really_ need to work on that.

Twenty-four is the number of hours you have in a day. Everyone has those, I know. But you make every minute, every _second_ , count. It’s inspiring, your work ethic. You’re constantly busy; planning videos, writing scripts, tweeting and emailing and editing for hours on end. There are times when I don’t see you after breakfast – you kiss me on your way to the office and disappear until long after the sun goes down. I’ve seen you rush to meet deadlines, poring over the same ten-second clip for hours to get the special effects _just_ right. I watched you pull consecutive all-nighters while writing our book, only to eagerly stroll into the BBC offices the next morning, coffee in hand. And at night, when you stumble into bed and I call you an old man for being tired before midnight, all you do is smile around a yawn. Because you love what you do, and it shows. 2016 has so much in store for you – I can’t wait to see your hard work pay off.

Twenty-five is the number of conversations we’ve had about getting a dog. You want to get one. I want to get one. Everyone and their mothers want us to get one. But we’re always too busy and there’s not enough space in the flat and our landlord would have an aneurysm if we so much as bought a fish, so the conversations are, sadly, just that; conversations. But one day, it’ll happen. One day we’ll get that house on the seaside, with the garden and the white iron fence and the giant wall of windows you love so much. One day we’ll paint the walls of our bedroom whatever color we want, and hang up pictures and posters with _real_ nails, not bluetack. And one day, we’ll get a dog. Whatever breed we want, however many we want. We’ll get the dog, and the two-story house, and the other conversations we have – the ones about marriage, and kids, and other adult things that become more and more tangible with each passing year – will stop being just conversations. It’ll happen, I promise. One day.

Twenty-six is the number of cherry blossom trees we saw during our first day in Japan. It was the perfect holiday, a much-needed vacation from the stress of the book and the tour and the overall job of being “Dan and Phil”. The air was crisp and the sky was golden, and I’d never seen you happier than when you stepped out onto the hotel balcony and took in the view. I could see the blossoms reflected in your irises, pink buds that seemed to bloom from within your very being. You stood there for a minute, hands on the railing, and I stood beside you until I heard you sniffle. You _never_ cry; between the two of us, I’m the more emotional one, the one reaching for the tissues over a beautiful sunrise, the one rubbing his eyes over a Pixar movie. But your eyes were shining with unshed tears and when I asked if you were okay, you laughed and said that you were more than okay. We stood there, content with simply existing in the moment, and as the sun began to set and the sky turned cherry blossom-pink, you wrapped an arm around my waist and pulled me close. You didn’t say anything, but you didn’t have to. And I didn’t saying anything, because I don’t need words to say I love you, too.

Twenty-seven is the day you uploaded your first video. March 27, 2006 – you were nineteen years old, and completely oblivious to the future you were starting. You had no idea that one day you’d be reaching millions of viewers, saving lives and calling others to be the best versions of themselves they could be. You had no idea that one day you’d be rubbing elbows with the biggest names in the business, a household name across the UK, on international radio every month. And you definitely had no idea that one day, you’d inspire an insecure little boy from Wokingham to follow his dreams, nor did you know how that boy would turn his entire life around, all because of you. That video was the start of an adventure, the beginning of the rest of your life. You rambled on about the strangest of things, and the quality is shit compared to the content you make now, but your heart of gold is timeless and that same smile is in every thumbnail on your channel. As your number one fan, it’s been an honor to watch you rise to the top. You’ve come so far, and you’ve only got further to go.

Twenty-eight is how old you used to be. It’s been an eventful year – a book, a tour, even another million subscribers under your belt. It was the year that you found your voice, your courage to speak your mind. The shy boy who hid behind his camera now stands on stage in front of thousands, singing and dancing and making animal noises without abandon. It was the year you grew into yourself, standing taller, laughing louder. It was the year you made your dreams come true, and I am in awe of how much you’ve grown. Twenty-eight was a great year for you, but you’ll just keep getting better and better. I guarantee it.

And twenty-nine is how old you are now. Twenty-nine years of happiness and heartbreak, of success and failure. Twenty-nine years of love and support, of puns and innuendos, of smiles and laughter, of hope and joy. And as you near yet another milestone in your life, I know that the best is yet to come. I’ll be there with you, every step of the way. Because you’re my person, my everything, the love of my life. Your future is limitless. This is your time. I can’t wait to watch you shine.

I love you, Angel Bean. Happy Birthday.

 

 


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